


slow like honey

by majesdanes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Absolutely shameless fluff, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdanes/pseuds/majesdanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Emma and Regina spend a week at a winter mountain retreat with their family, and play truth or dare in the hot tub.<br/>Written for SQW Day Two: Travel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slow like honey

Not so long ago, Regina would have chosen a slow death over the prospect of even an _hour_ spent in the company of Snow White and her insipid family. Perhaps it’s a testament to how far they’d come that Regina allows that very same family to coax her into joining them on a trip–a trip to a secluded cabin in the _mountains_ , no less, where opportunities for escape are especially thin on the ground. Of course, she hadn’t relented without a fight; Snow had spent the better part of a week wheedling an agreement out of her, only to _conveniently_ let slip to Henry that an indoor waterpark was within driving distance of the lodge. She’d taken one look at his hopeful expression and folded instantly.

Snow White and secrets–she should have known from past experience that the combination was a recipe for trouble.

Still, it’s difficult to feel properly resentful when Henry and the others pile in on their last night at the cabin, scuffing snow-caked feet against the wood floor and shaking off gloves and mittens to rub warmth into chapped hands; he is _beaming_ after all, that smile so like his other mother’s–open, and impossibly warm.

Regina had long since given up on skiing, too inexperienced for the more advanced trails Snow and David seemed to navigate with such ease and utterly unwilling to spend hours stranded on the bunny slopes like a _child_ (Emma, of course, had fumbled her way through those same, simple trails in earnest; Regina had watched her progress with mingling annoyance and exasperation–and _certainly_ not anything approaching fondness.)

Despite Henry’s pleas (and Emma’s knowing grin), she’d retired early to make dinner, determined that their last meal at the cabin not be one of Snow’s subpar offerings. The sauce is simmering over low heat when Emma sweeps in to dip a finger in the pot. “ _Fuck_ ,” she exhales in a hiss, “That’s hot.”

Regina arches a delicate brow, as though to say, “What did you expect?” But some of the effect is lost, because Emma’s leaning over her shoulder, jaw practically digging into the crook of her neck, and– _The stove is on,_ Regina thinks irritably;  _that’s_ the only reason why there’s heat flooding her cheeks. It has nothing to do with Emma Swan’s _proximity_ – _or_ the way she’s bringing a finger to her lips, tasting the Béchamel with eyes half-closed–because she’s not some lovesick teenager mooning over a crush, for God’s sake. Emma had only just left the pirate, besides; even if there _were_ a chance of something–something _more_ between them _,_ she couldn’t possibly prod at the still-open wound of a past relationship in good conscience.

“It’s good,” Emma says and Regina comes back to herself with a start–to this unfamiliar kitchen that still feels somehow like home, and Emma’s eyes holding hers with such compassion that she shifts uncomfortably in response. “The sauce, I mean. Not that everything you cook isn’t perfect.” If Emma had meant the remark to come across as sarcastic, the sentiment falls flat; instead it’s only soft, genuine in ways that make Regina’s throat catch.

“Yes, well…” She swallows. “Thank you.”

Emma doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t draw away either; it’s only when Henry comes tearing into the kitchen, newly showered and loudly proclaiming his hunger, that Emma seems to realize there’s something decidedly _suspicious_ about the way they’re still standing, cheeks practically flush. Even then, she moves to meet him with a kind of calm that has Regina flexing her fists in her pockets, weary of the way her pulse drums an uneven beat against her wrist.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Henry echoes Emma’s earlier compliment around a mouthful of pasta (“Swallow before you speak, dear,” she tells him patiently, and he and Emma share sympathetic, long-suffering sighs–teasingly theatrical, and fond enough that Regina finds she’s biting back a smile all throughout the exchange). David relays Henry’s every minor accomplishment with skiing in stunning detail until Henry is squirming in his seat, ears glowing red with his embarrassment. Henry surprises all of them by volunteering to wash and dry the dishes without help (“Better that than soaking in the jacuzzi for hours with the rest of you,” he’d said, nose wrinkling with distaste, and Regina had leaned up on her toes to press a grateful kiss to the crown of his head.)

Truth be told, she’d forgotten there even _was_ a hot tub; the five of them had been so busy in the days since they’d arrived that there hadn’t been time to spare for relaxation. Regina had always _loathed_ the cold; nothing made her limbs feel heavier than hours spent trekking through endless snow. And so she’d fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow each night. Wryly, she thought that it must have been the most sleep she’d gotten in years.

Now, though she’s tense and alert from a night of cooking and little more, and the thought of a soak is, she can’t help but admit–not _entirely_ unappealing, made all the more so by Snow and David’s rejection of the hot tub in favor of popcorn and a movie.

And, _God_ –the instant she lowers herself into the water, she can feel the knots in her shoulders easing. As much as she’d protested the trip on principle, there _is_ a kind of beauty to the place; the cabins are spread far enough apart that there’s nothing but snow visible in any direction, the sun a faint glow staining the horizon line in warm-toned technicolor. She decides, as her arms map a wide, languid arc past her head, that she won’t think about _anything_ for the rest of the night. Not Robin, or the look of the coarse plains of his face in the dark when they’d moved against one another; not the placid acceptance he’d offered in lieu of understanding, or the way she’d clung to it regardless. Not Henry and the fact that he’d had to bend at the neck so that she could kiss him; not the way that Henry sometimes seems as though he can see right through to the heart of her, to that foolish tangle of wants all laid bare for a boy with eyes too _wise_ for someone still half a child.  

 _Not Emma Swan, either_ , she almost thinks, and _would_ have if not for the sudden splash of someone slipping into the water beside her; it’s unexpected enough that Regina jolts at the sound, heart ricocheting painfully in her chest.

And of _course_ it’s Emma, flashing a toothy grin that does nothing to soothe the ragged edges of her agitation. She’s got on nothing but cotton boyshorts and a t-shirt courtesy of the lodge gift shop (its name emblazoned along the chest in a putrid shade of green). Regina scoffs at the sight, not because it matters especially what Emma wears, but because it allows her a much-needed moment to compose herself. Emma doesn’t take offense at the jab, only rolls her eyes playfully and sinks further into the water, the t-shirt billowing loose around her waist. “What? Not formal enough for her majesty?”

“Hardly,” Regina says on a breath, aware that Emma is taking in her bathing suit with eyes that linger a split-second too long for propriety; she dismisses the thought almost immediately, as yet another notion born of misplaced hope. She thought she’d long since folded up that instinct, or desire–whatever _this_ was–and tucked it away, safe out of sight. There had been Robin, and in the aftermath of his death she’d learned to create distance between them–enough that it couldn’t arouse suspicion of avoidance, enough that she could _breathe_. That same distance is absent here (the lack of it more pronounced than ever with Emma wedged up against her, bare thigh brushing hers beneath the water) and the space between them is heavy now with hope.

For the first time since their arrival, Regina regrets agreeing to come.

She reaches for the flute of wine perched on the rim of the jacuzzi, takes a careful sip, and gently sets it down; the silence yawns between them, begging to be filled, and Regina obliges with a mixture of relief and disappointment. “I really should be drying off soon. I didn’t realize how late it was.” Regina’s already moving to stand when Emma lays a hand on her arm, anchoring her.

“It’s not even midnight yet,” Emma says, brow furrowed. Regina thinks, for a moment, that Emma will press her for a reason; already, her head is spinning with potential excuses, each new option more outlandish than the one that came before. Instead, Emma softens, turns teasing. “We haven’t even played any of the standard hot tub games.”

“Such as?”

“Have you never…?”

Resigned to remaining in the hot tub, Regina reaches for the bottle of wine and pours herself another helping. “You’ll recall that there are no jacuzzis in Storybrooke,” she says over the rim of her glass. “And they weren’t exactly available in the Enchanted Forest.”

“Please, _tell_ me you’ve at least played Truth or Dare.”

Regina snorts. “Isn’t that a child’s game? You’d have better luck asking our son the same question.”

Emma’s eyes widen with mock-outrage. “It’s a _classic_!”

“For children,” Regina repeats, resolutely.

“Fine.” Shrugging, Emma leans into the wall at her back and spreads her arms wide around the lip of the tub, fingers just grazing Regina’s bare shoulder. “I get it.”

And Regina should know the sound of _that_ bait well enough not to rise to it, but she hears her voice emerging all the same, a dangerous note to it now. “Get what, exactly?”

Emma smirks, unbearably smug beneath the faux-indifference. “You’re afraid of what I might ask,” she says shrewdly. “Or what I might dare you to do.” She gives an idle shrug, that smile stretching wider still. “Or both.”

“Oh, please. That’s...ridiculous.” And it _is_ , she thinks, rolling her eyes at the very suggestion. But Emma is still watching her, challenge written large all over her face, and some part of her can’t help but add: “What _were_ you going to ask?”

“Well, that depends.”

“On?” Regina presses, impatience mounting.

“On what you were going to choose.”

 _That_ much should be obvious; she could lie her way through a question easily enough, but there was no telling what ridiculous stunts Emma would dream up, given the chance to compel Regina to do _anything_. “Truth.”

“Of course,” Emma says, so sly and knowing that Regina exhales in a huff and snaps out, “ _Fine_ , then dare.”

“Okay.” Emma leans forward eagerly, like she’s already got one dare in mind–and maybe several more at that. But something about the sight of her like this (full of such intoxicating _joy_ when only months ago she’d walked like a woman condemned to death, all blank eyes and tentative murmurs) makes Regina soften with warmth. Enough so that when Emma gleefully orders her out of the tub and into the cold for ten minutes, bare feet against snow, hair clinging wet to her shoulders and cheeks, she complies without protest.

It’s Emma who relents first; she watches as Regina’s teeth begin to chatter, worrying her lower lip between her teeth (in ways that are, Regina finds, _entirely_ distracting), and when Regina begins to shake with the cold, Emma reaches her limit. “Okay, come on,” she says, brandishing both hands in a sign of surrender. “I officially take it back. You’re off the hook.”

Regina breathes out a puff of air that mists instantly before her eyes. “If you’re trying to trick me into giving up, you’re doing a terrible job of it.” And then, when Emma gives an emphatic shake of her head: “Even I know that’s not how the game works, Ms. Swan.” Emma groans, frustrated, but Regina only folds her arms over her chest and sets her jaw stubbornly.  

“Distract me,” she demands after a moment. Emma just blinks at her bemusedly, and Regina breathes warmth into cupped hands and repeats, “Distract me. Talk about...I don’t know, _anything_ ; I don’t care what.”

“Um…” There’s a protracted moment of silence, Emma fishing for some trivial anecdote to share. Spurred on by Regina’s glare, she stumbles her way through one story about a foster parent who’d stockpiled Oreos in every flavor, and another who’d painted her toenails in metallic rainbows; Regina gentles throughout the telling of them, some part of her sensing that Emma had cherry-picked rare moments of humor, unearthed memories clogged with dust and polished them to gleaming for Regina’s enjoyment. Emma is no expert in storytelling; she isn’t very articulate, tends to falter in places where uncertainty weighs on her too heavily. But it’s heartfelt _–Easy,_ Regina thinks, _to get swept up in_.

She doesn’t notice that she’s rubbing warmth into her arms with shaking hands until Emma points it out to her.

“ _Regina_ ,” she snaps, “You _win_ , now get in the damn tub before you freeze to death.”

Regina huffs, but eases herself into the steaming water at last. The relief is instantaneous, and she breathes a sigh as the warmth spreads through her, chasing off the stiffness, the bone-deep cold. For a brief, blissful moment, she slips beneath the water, submerging herself until she’s nothing but heat. She emerges with a splash to scoop the still-soaked hair from her shoulders, wring some of the wetness from it and pile it high on her head. She’s tucking a stray lock into some messy approximation of a bun when she catches Emma watching her, eyes rounding.

She freezes in place, one hand still tangled in her own hair, the other a tightly clenched fist at her side, because that _look_ –Emma Swan, with those infuriating sunshine curls swept up in a ponytail and that _sinfully_ ugly lodge t-shirt, and _that_ look. She’s nearly too shocked to be smug.

(Nearly.)

There’s a beat, heavy between them, and then Regina sends up a spray of water with a flick of her hand, catching Emma on the cheek. Emma shakes herself from her reverie, mouth falling open with indignation. “Did you just _splash_ me?”

“I didn’t– _splash,_ I was getting your attention. They’re two entirely different th–” She’s interrupted by what is _undeniably_ a splash. Sputtering with rage, drenched, Regina meets Emma’s eyes and holds her gaze; in the stunned quiet that follows, Emma begins to worry that she’d horribly misjudged this exchange, that maybe she’d taken things just one step too far.

It’s when she’s distracted–distanced by troubled thoughts and the weight of Regina’s scowl–that Regina strikes back, and with a vengeance. Emma is soaked through in an instant, face dripping, those perfect curls sodden now–and she’s _beaming_ even as she blinks water from her eyes, that soft, unrestrainedly sunny smile that makes Regina’s heart turn over in her chest.

Regina kisses her, then–kisses her because she doesn’t know how _not_ to in this moment. Instinct drives her, and it isn’t until she’s got a hand splayed flat against Emma’s chest that she remembers her uncertainty; there had been _years_ of love, and love, and love with no sign of reciprocation. She’d buried her feelings by necessity, for her own sake and for Emma’s. It doesn’t seem possible that one smile (even _that_ smile) had been enough to unravel it all.

She comes to her senses by degrees; Emma’s forehead is resting against hers, their lips only grazing now, and Emma’s eyes are _wide_ with alarm, wide like a mistake. _I’m sorry,_ she wants to say, or, _I wasn’t thinking,_ but she still can’t bring herself to pull away.

Emma shifts, then, and Regina becomes aware of the pad of a thumb guiding her chin upward, skin warm and damp against the turn of her jaw. Gently, Emma leans into her, parts Regina’s lips with her tongue; she kisses her, slow and searching, in ways that leave no room for doubt. She kisses Regina until she’s dizzy with it, until she thinks she could go mad just from Emma’s hand tangled in her hair, from Emma’s thumb rubbing circles over the swell of her breast and Emma’s mouth on hers after five long years of indecision.

Without warning, Emma withdraws, lips still parted, kiss-swollen pink. “Regina.” She nearly chokes on the name. “I...don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret later.”

“Regret,” Regina repeats blankly. There’s a rushing feeling in her chest, as though a dam had burst there; she feels, otherwise, surprisingly calm. Already, contingency plans are wavering into being. She can harden herself against humiliation, and she can salvage this–salvage _them_.

But she thinks that she _knows_ Emma now, and this isn’t the behavior of an Emma who’d been cornered–an Emma who would readily sacrifice her own happiness to please the people she loves. There’s an air of resignation to her, instead; it’s self-protection, reliance on survival tactics–and only moments ago, Regina had been inclined to do the same.

“I want this,” Regina says, as evenly as she can manage with her heart in her throat. “If you don’t, be honest with me.”

Emma does something strange, then; she laughs, bright and watery. “God, I think...I think I kind of always have. Is that crazy?”

Regina remembers a dingy jail-cell, and Emma’s face fierce through the bars (“ _She’s not dying,”_ she'd said, and Regina had stared and stared.) She remembers Neverland, their arms linked around Henry’s shoulders, soft eyes meeting over his head; remembers Emma clutching the dagger in a white-knuckled grip, her shout of “ _You’ve worked too hard to have your happiness destroyed,”_ that had turned the blood in her veins to ice, and a million moments in between. She’d loved Emma angrily and begrudgingly, and then warmly, wistfully, in the spaces in between the danger and grand proclamations, in the midst of the everyday minutiae.

She’d loved her for years.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs, as honestly as she can. Wryly, she concedes, “If it is, then I suppose that's on both of us." 

Emma smiles, tangles their hands together beneath the water and then raises Regina’s to her lips; she kisses the rounded ridges of her knuckles, spreads her palm open wide and runs a thumb along the lifelines that span it. It’s ridiculous and indulgent and Regina breathes, “ _Enough_ ,” in exasperated fondness when Emma moves to kiss even the tip of her nose; Emma brushes a strand of dark hair behind her ear, the better to kiss along the curve of her jaw, and the word is swallowed up by a groan. " _Emma_.”

Fingers skim along the exposed skin of Regina’s hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake; the hand pauses, rests heavy against the dip of her waist, only to draw her in closer. Emma asks, voice rough, “Good?”

 _This can’t be real_ , Regina thinks, and, “Yes,” raggedly, “ _Good_.”

There's a kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth, and then another for her lips, and Regina can _feel_ Emma smiling through it, clumsy now with eagerness; she tips forward to wind a hand around Emma's neck, traces the shape of her collarbone with unsteady fingers. She'd only just leaned in to deepen the kiss (teeth catching on Emma's lip and drawing out a shuddering sigh), when a sound loud as a gunshot shatters the stillness. They spring apart, Regina with cheeks flaming and hands still clutching at the place where Emma had been; Emma with darting eyes that widen with sudden, sheepish realization. 

Henry leans against the door he'd just flung open, grinning wide. "Called it!" he shouts over his shoulder, "Pay up, Grandma." 

And Snow, through the half-open door, slips Henry a crisp, twenty-dollar bill.

The laughter pours out of Emma, high and bright; Regina struggles to maintain a disapproving frown as she leans forward to scrub her own lipstick stains from Emma's skin with the back of a hand, but she can't help but think that this feels so much like _family–_ and ( _oh_ , God) so much like home. 


End file.
